Il Filostrato
by Anistasia
Summary: Long one shot, M to be safe. Draco's most precious possession is given to the last person he wants. Slightly alternate universe, slightly out of character draco/hermione. Tinged in darkness.


Disclaimer: I don't own harry potter in any way shape or form. This is barely a creative work, plz don't sue me.

**XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX**  
**Prize Ungain'd...**

Draco ran down the hall, cursing creatively.  
Blaise could be a right bastard when he set his mind to it. So what if Draco kept a journal? There wasn't anything wrong with it, and it certainly wasn't "pussy-ish," as Blaise had so carefully put it. It wasn't a _diary_, with all the awful feminine connotations, it was a journal, damn it!  
Still, he didn't want it seen. If Pansy so much as got an inkling that Draco had enough emotion to put to paper she might expect some poetry. And Malfoy men don't wax poetic.  
So what if Draco did, on occasion, use some language that might be a bit more... blooming, shall we say. He prided himself on never using any ungainly poetic forms. He certainly wasn't to comparing anyone to beautiful Venus on the half shell.  
He would never put those emotions on paper. But... his journal wasn't exactly without poetic sentiment, even if Draco couldn't admit it. In the dark reaches of his mind he knew that that journal could properly put him in a very, very uncomfortable position.  
One thought and one thought only repeated itself on end in Draco's head: _don't read **that** page, just not **that** page, any other page, but Merlin let him not get to **that** page..._

Draco shouldn't have let himself write in a moment of weakness.  
** He hadn't been able to stop himself.**  
Draco blamed it on hormones, but he knew that wasn't true. He had promised himself that he could never let those damnable things sink into his journal, but he couldn't help it anymore than he could help breathing.  
It really wasn't his fault. _She_ was Artemis, tempting and untouchable, more than Venus, anyway. Psychologically he knew it was something to do with being wanting someone who was kind, the things he lacked. But he was stupid to ever let it continue this long. Ever. He couldn't imagine any situation where he might possibly gain what he secretly hoped for. Or not so secretly now that his journal was gone...  
Damn it! He had to find Blaise before he read that stupid bloody page!

It was just dreams at first, at the very dawn of his puberty around third year. He was, of course, a disgusting pervert like any thirteen year old boy. But, surprising or not, his favored material was the mudblood princess. And if he didn't give himself hell over it.  
He had refused to masturbate, partially because at the time, the thought of wanking over a muggle born made that little knot of family-conditioned hatred threaten to choke him, and partially because he knew it was wrong, dirty even, to do that over someone like her. She was entirely pure, extremely unobtainable and he was a bloody gash on the wizarding community. Even in third year he had known instinctively that he wasn't meant to have what the golden trio took for granted: love, friendship, real loyalty. His "friends" were no friends at all, just other lost souls trained since infancy to be cold, unfeeling pawns, beautiful empty beings for the dark lord to chew up and spit out again.  
But despite of knowing it was wrong, and that his family would have killed him without question, his subconscious yearned for the girl he would have to live without.

Draco had been so cold for so long. Some days he looked around the Slytherin common room at the insular little islands that people had created, and had the very dangerous desire to just touch someone else, anyone. He suppressed this desire. His arms ached from the cold and he hugged his pillow at night, pretending it was someone that wanted to be held by him. The cold spread all over him. He couldn't feel, and felt too much all at once. He wanted so badly to have some warmth in his life. But the cold look in his father's eyes when Draco expressed any emotion apart from sheer disdain for all humanity, his mother's refusal of even the most basic affection stopped Draco from ever seeking out what he really needed: someone who gave a damn whether Draco was alive or dead.  
But his dreams were filled with warmth. In his dreams _she_ was there, touching Draco all over, and whispering unimaginably warm things to him. At first, it was just sex, and then it devolved into just spending time with the girl of his dreams, laughing with her and touching her (oh but for the luxury of touching her) in simple ways. The sex wasn't gone, but his subconscious had expanded into something far beyond sex. In his dreams she meant everything to him, and he found himself feeling more than probably any Malfoy had in eons.  
He would watch her, careful that an expression of perfect unadulterated hatred stayed fixed on his features. She was beautiful, even if she didn't know it, and incredibly intelligent, clever, and in fact, he had discovered one day, exactly like the Hermione of his dreams.  
And then, he had written it down, and for that he was paying dearly.

Blaise had always been a charmer. Where Draco had searched out human companionship in dreams, Blaise found it in warm bodies. As long as the body was female (with occasional exceptions), reasonably attractive, and alive, Blaise would sleep with it. Emotional attachment had no appeal for him, but there was something companionable in a body next to yours, joined with yours. Draco commended his strategies, but he couldn't bring himself to it. Draco wasn't a virgin, but encounters were far and few, partially because of his general loneliness, and partially because of the female third of the golden trio haunting his dreams and thoughts like a pretty little banshee.  
Draco found at least some solace in books. He spent hours in the library. And it was true that, with her on the other side of a bookcase, he at least found a little peace. It was at these times that the journal came out, filled with Draco's sprawling script as he accounted his days, his memories, his plans and premonitions. There was enough evidence in that little leather-bound book to put his father away for a long, long time. But Draco could honestly care less if Blaise read any of that.  
_ One_ page of his only hope and only real despair. How could he have written it down? Draco felt so stupid.

Draco ran to the library. He knew that Blaise had a penchant for sneaking in, after hours, with a girl or two, and thought no one knew. In fact, every one knew, and Draco was finally about to put that little tidbit of information to use. The hall was empty, but Draco saw the door just closing. He threw himself to catch it and sprang into the deserted room.  
He breathed in the calm quiet and tried to get himself under control. The hairs stood to attention on the back of his neck and Draco knew he wasn't alone.  
" Blaise? Hello?" Draco half-yelled, trying not to attract attention from anyone besides the Italian.  
He heard some dark chuckling from behind the counter.  
Draco lost his hard-earned cool, " Give it back!"  
" You never told me, sly devil. And carrying a torch is for girls and Gryffindors," Blaise sprung up, looking around casually with a sparkle in his eye.  
" Give it back," Draco ground out, teeth gritted.  
" I don't have it," Blaise smiled  
Draco went pale, " Where did you put it?"  
" Hmm... let... me... remember..." Blaise tried to look thoughtful.  
Draco growled in warning and took another step towards his prey.  
" Okay, I'll tell you, keep your panties on," Blaise laughed out and gestured towards the door, " I gave it to her."  
" Who?"  
" Who do you think?"  
Draco could've strangled him.

**  
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX  
True and Not True...**

Earlier, Hermione had woken up to the sound of the library door slam and someone pace the carpeted library floor. She looked at her watch and silently chastised herself for falling asleep. She was secreted away in her favorite spot, a small table in the farthest corner of the library, and she couldn't fault anyone but herself for not getting out of the library before closing. Madam Pince was old, and couldn't check every inch of the library before eight. Hermione silently cursed herself and began gathering her books.  
As she reached for her worn copy of _Hogwarts: A History_, the other person let out a loud gasp. Hermione flinched.  
" Oh no shit!" the person shouted, " That little pussy! I knew it!"  
Hermione quickly gathered her books and threw her bag over her shoulder and tried to scoot out of the library quietly. She wouldn't bother the other person, whatever it was they were doing.  
Head lowered, she walked sedately towards the door before someone coughed. Hermione froze and turned to face the other person.

" What are you doing here?" They both asked almost simultaneously, both genuinely surprised. Although Hermione knew rationally that there had been another person in the Library, it still surprised her to see Blaise Zambini standing in his baggy silk pajamas in the dark of the library. He looked disarmingly out of place, like he had just stumbled out of bed. Then again, she imagined that she, in her after-school uniform of jeans and a loose t-shirt, her hair probably frizzy and askew, might have looked just as weird and surprising.  
" I... I must have fallen asleep and no one woke me when the library closed," She stammered when Blaise offered nothing readily.  
" I needed somewhere to read this," He said, looking at the book in his hands and frowning. Then Blaise smiled and looked up at her, grinning mischievously.  
" What?" Hermione didn't like his smile instinctively.  
His smile widened, " I... Do you know what this is?"  
" Wha... no," She answered.  
" This," He held up the plain leather-bound book, " is Draco's diary."  
" Diary?" She echoed. She didn't know that Malfoy kept a diary. She would have to tell Harry and Ron.  
Blaise watched the hungry sparkle in her eye and his grin widened, " Do you want it?"  
" I don't... are you offering?" She couldn't help herself. She really wanted to read it.  
" Yeah. I think there's some thing in here that you might want to read," Blaise sounded too sly.  
She looked at his suspiciously. She remembered what had happened to Ginny the last time a diary had been given to someone it didn't belong to.  
" Is there a hex on it or something?"  
" No. I swear, Granger, it's no trick," Blaise held up his hand as if he were testifying.  
" Can I look at it?" She asked. He handed it over and she inspected the cover for any sign of magical tampering. Waving her wand a couple of times, she checked for enchantments or curses. It was clear, save for the most minor permanency charm on the ink. She could barely even feel any magic in it. It could have passed for a regular old muggle journal if needed.  
Blaise held up his hands, " Do you want it?"  
Of course, it could be a fake, planted to give false information to Harry. But on the off chance that it was real...  
" Can I have it?" She asked, too eagerly, " But if there's something... dark..."  
" Yes, take it, take it!" Blaise threw up his hands, " Boy, Griffyndors are suspicious!"  
She caught his eyes for a minute, but he seemed serious, even pleased. She squinted at him.  
" Well, thank you then. I guess," She responded.  
" Merlin, Granger, you're smothering me," he joked, " You'd better go, it's after curfew."  
Hermione started for the door and then turned back, " Ten points from Slytherin, Zambini. And get to bed."  
As she pushed through the heavy doors and dashed back to her room to read the diary, she could have sworn she heard Blaise say, " Small price to pay."

Hermione ran to her dorm and threw down her bag on the floor. She set the book on her desk and moved away from it warily, as if it would leap out at her. She was still suspicious.  
She pulled off her wrinkled clothes with urgency and threw an ancient black t-shirt that had originally belonged to her father over her head, inhaling the soft smell of cleanser as the material wafted over her. She crept over, cautiously, towards the desk, and sat down.  
She took a deep breath and opened the first page. There was no formalities, no Malfoy name embossed on the first page, just a scribbled Draco written carelessly with waning ink on the soft leather of the inside cover. It began with the date, written in neat but cramped handwriting.  
Hermione flipped through the first pages of the journal, both fascinated and disgusted. All were written over the summer before 7th year, and all were filled out with meticulous detail of every horrifying act of child abuse that could be visited on a person. Some pages were splattered with blood, Malfoy's obviously. What scared Hermione the worst was the dread coldness, mixed with a hint of underlying desperation. Malfoy's words were concise and clear, almost as if he were seeing the horror from far away, and up far too close simultaneously.  
" ..._He tore off my clothes and chained me to the tree in the west garden to teach me a lesson. About what, I'm unsure. He left me there all night and by the time the servants brought me in, I was soaked to the skin, supposedly delirious, and I had a fever of 101º. So mother gave me a sleeping draught and Miti gave me some coffee. I slept for two days and now I've finally got my faculties back._.."  
" _...Then he decided he'd had enough of the argument and if I didn't agree I could very well shut my fat mouth. I must have gave him the wrong look, so he took out his knife and cut my forearm open, right above my elbow. I almost thought he had hit an artery from all the blood, but..._"  
" ..._Mother was acting under orders today. She took me to the dungeons to see my father's illegitimate child by the mudblood servant girl. She forced me to crucio the boy until he lay on the dungeon floor without moving. I think he had been making noise. He looked about three, and not at all like me nor father..._"  
" _... He whipped my back until I could feel the blood running down my legs, asking if I liked the muggle way better. Mother watched but then she left about halfway through, looking disgusted. She said I sounded like a pig when I screamed..._"

Hermione couldn't stop herself from crying, her salty tears dripping down her face and onto the bloody pages. Her hands were shaking and she had to drop the pages of the book before she ripped them. Taking a deep breath, she turned the page and saw an enchanted picture of the dark mark, squirming and writhing on the smooth paper. She gasped and her hand flew from the page as if she had been burned. Underneath the drawing was a caption in Malfoy's elegant scrawl: " _Father held me down and the Dark Lord laughed when he cut it into me. Blaise said I had started screaming obscenities halfway through, and father held my mouth shut. Then the Dark Lord spit into my face when I cursed him. I don't remember much, though._"  
She couldn't stop reading, even though every page was dripping heavily with numbness and despair. She couldn't stop the tears that dripped listlessly from her cheeks onto the pages, blurring the terrible words, although that wouldn't matter. They were etched into her memory.  
The setting changed, from the manor to Hogwarts, but the subject matter was almost the same. The Slytherin escapades to the shrieking shack to torture a squib, under their parents orders naturally. Malfoy's long distance suffering at his parent's hands.  
It wouldn't stop, though. The pain and despair and deadness was filled into the pages, spilling out onto the desk, onto her hands. Every page was fitted out with meticulous, ordered accounts of Voldemort's crimes. Hermione felt a little bit of her innocence slip away as she read those pages.

And then, suddenly, in the leaves as if she had willed it, there was some- _some_- show of feeling.  
" _In the dream I'm screaming again, and I'm being stabbed, again and again and the blood bubbles and pours like a fountain but I just won't die. It's flooding and gushing and I'm covered in it, breathing it in. My lungs are coated in thick, crimson blood but I won't drown, I won't die. It goes on and on and on for eternity. And then she's there. And it's all okay, and the pain is gone. She holds me and she cries for me and she makes it better. God, if only she could be there in reality._"  
Hermione was puzzled, very puzzled. Who was this person? She turned the page and some words, set apart from the others, caught her eye.  
" _**I can't help myself, I love her.**  
I love everything she does. When she smiles, she has a little dimple on her right cheek that I would give anything to inspire. When she's angry, her brow furrows and her eyes stay locked on mine. If only she would look my way more often. When she walks, she sways like the leaves of a willow tree in the breeze.  
She's so beautiful, so pure, so strong.  
I can barely bring myself to write her name. I'm in the library, and she's just beyond the bookcases, just yards from me. Oh Merlin, I'm going to die in the deepest pit of hades for loving her. Satan himself will lambaste me over the flaming carcass of a goat for loving her.  
But can I help it. In my dreams she's so kind. She holds me, and wants to be near me. No one wants to be near me. If I could only touch her, just once, without anyone knowing. But when could that ever happen? In my dreams. Has that cliche-d phrase ever been more true? In my dreams, Hermione, in my dreams, I'm not cold like this. I can touch her in my dreams, I can talk to her without repercussions. I'm not cold when I'm with her in my dreams, she warms me up.  
The cold is going to kill me, isn't it? Maybe God is finding a new way to torture me before I go. Make me fall in love, because God is a cruel sadist. It's the worst suffering to be in love with her._"

Hermione didn't believe in love at first sight. But as she read the page, she felt a little dam inside of her break. She didn't understand the emotions that gushed over her as she sat at her desk, heaving sobs like a small child.  
She would have thought that Malfoy's pain would bring her nothing but joy, and now she felt so wrong. She felt as though everything she had ever wanted for the world had been turned on his head. An hour ago, in the library, she would have happily sent Malfoy to Azkaban, locked the cell door herself. But now she saw things in a completely different light. How many poor people were there, on the dark side, who felt like they had no choices? How many were tortured at the hands of people that were supposed to love them? How many were forced into taking the dark mark, and how many were empty inside?  
Hermione cried and cried but she couldn't stop her emotions. Despite her analytical nature, she was a very passionate person. She couldn't turn her emotions to logic, even if she sometimes wished that she could. It was the only reason she had been sorted into Gryffendor: Ravenclaws thought with their heads, but Hermione thought with her heart.  
And her heart was yearning to stop the pain she felt for Malfoy.

**XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX**  
**How often have I wished me thus...**

" Mione, you look tired," Ron remarked, reaching over the table to grab a stack of toast greedily.  
" I was up all night... reading," She responded as quietly as she could.  
" Do you really think the defense will set that way, Harry?" Ron turned back to his other friend, toast crumbs spraying all over his plate while Ginny looked on, completely disgusted.  
" Wroughton'd be a fool not to..."  
An enchanted note flew unceremoniously across the great hall, wafting with purpose over the heads of oh so many students and dropping elegantly into Hermione's hand. For a moment she panicked, glancing at her friends worriedly and getting a spray of toast in her face for her effort. Ginny was struggling in vain to keep her pumpkin juice clean and Harry was gesturing wildly, his hair flopping with his exaggerated head movements. She opened the sharply folded parchment under the table and glanced as inconspicuously as she could.  
It was completely blunt: _Granger, I want my journal back. Meet me tonight in the trophy room after rounds end- or else._  
There was no signature but she knew exactly who it was from. She looked up at him sharply, heart beating erratically, and met his grey stare.  
He looked like he was going to claw her eyes out and enjoy every second of it. She shook the toast crumbs out of her hair, pretending composure, while inside her heart thumped erratically.

Hermione gasped as he turned the corner of the doorway to the trophy room. She felt like she had been waiting for a long time, but he still startled her.  
He eyed her coldly and reached out his hand for the book. Just like that, no words or pleasantries. He wanted it back. He was dressed in a black cashmere sweater and a white t-shirt with jeans. Even with the angry look on his face, he was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen, now that she took a second to notice him. Not as spindly as Harry, nor as muscled as Ron, he wavered somewhere in between. His skin was pale as marble but yet somehow warm and she literally longed to touch it. His face was a combination of soft and angular, with high cheekbones softening into a strong jaw, smooth full lips and a straight nose. Too bad it was twisted into a terrible scowl.  
" Are you just going to stand there, you stupid bitch? I have things to do," He snarled.  
She just stared back at him, eyes watering. Could the diary have been wrong? Maybe it was a joke he was writing down to amuse his friends. Maybe Blaise was in on it. She started to hand it to him, but something held her back.  
" You... I..." She sputtered.  
" Cat got your tongue, Granger?" He practically spat at her.  
" How dare you treat me so rudely? You come back here to get your precious diary..." She began, incensed by his aggression

" It's not a diary, you..." He took an angry step forward.  
" Don't interrupt me! You asked for it back and I could have very well kept it for blackmail but I didn't, did I? You shouldn't be acting so damn high and mighty when I still have the thing you want. The least you could do is be polite, but that's just too damn hard for you," Hermione was beyond angry, " Don't you have any manners?"

" Don't I have manners? You read my damn dia...journal!" He took another step closer, and then another, not stopping until they were just a few inches from each other. His chest puffed out in anger and he made an exasperated growl.  
" Well..." Hermione started out strong before she realized that he was in the right. She shouldn't have read his diary.  
Their eyes stayed fixed on each other, silver to gold, both just waiting for the other to back down. They were inches apart and Hermione could hear his heavy breathing from anger, or something else, she didn't know. Then his eyes briefly flickered down to her lips and she thought he might kiss her. Unconsciously she leaned into him. Then he stepped back, his eyes falling away. He seemed to take a pause.  
" You shouldn't go around reading other people's journals, you don't know what you'll find," He said, the words falling out of his mouth before she thought he realized it.  
" Well I didn't know what I'd find, and now I do, don't I?" She shouted.  
" Yes," He said, " Yes you do."  
He met her eyes for a second and she thought she saw hurt for just a moment, and then his hand shot out and snatched the diary from her hand before she had a chance to protest. Without another word he turned and walked calmly away.  
She didn't even stop to think before following him, " What does that mean?"  
Whatever you want it to, Granger," He avoided her eyes as they walked briskly down the corridor.  
" You can't just say something like that and then walk away!" She exclaimed.  
" Watch me."  
Suddenly Hermione exploded. She couldn't take any more of this.  
" Damn it Malfoy, you know what you wrote in that journal and don't pretend that you didn't! I bet you planned on being so awful just to trick me into forgetting what you wrote!" She pushed his arm for emphasis and he turned to her, eyes flashing.  
" I'm not pretending anything. I came to retrieve my possession and I did. What you think you did or did not read isn't really my business," He responded coolly, but she could see that she had hit the nail right on the head.  
" You wrote it!"  
" Every word."  
" Well..." She faltered, and then pressed forward, " Is it true?"  
" Is what true?" He backed away from her questions weakly.  
" That page... what you said about me..." She trailed off. What if she had misunderstood everything? She couldn't help herself before she began to doubt everything she had read. She looked at the floor and felt like an idiot.  
There was a long pause and Hermione was on the verge of walking away before she heard his whisper.  
" And if I did?"

Hermione couldn't stop the noise that bubbled up from her throat, halfway between a squeal and a sob. She couldn't stop her eyes from meeting his, burning into his sliver with her gold.  
The scowl had fallen from his face, and his feelings were laid bare in his eyes. He looked so desperate and forlorn. This was the Malfoy that had exploded with feeling on those pages, that had bleed and cried and screamed and writhed.  
** She couldn't stop herself.  
** She reached out and touched him, her hand on his pallid cheek.  
He flinched and shied away, the mask beginning to slip back onto his face. But she couldn't give up, not now. She moved with a quickness that alarmed her.  
She was against him now, arms tight around his waist, her unbidden tears soaking into his soft black sweater. She swallowed her sobs and held him tighter as he tensed.  
And then, ever so slowly, he relaxed into her, awkwardly resting his arms around her as if his limbs didn't know how to wrap themselves around another person.  
" Was it all true?" She whispered into his chest, " All that happened to you?"  
He responded blankly, almost condescending, " I told you: every word."  
" God, why didn't you tell anyone?" She cried.  
" Who could I possibly tell?"  
" Anyone! Harry, Dumbledore, me, the ministry..." She trailed away at the sneer on his face.  
" They wouldn't believe me," He dismissed it. He was completely thrown off. It had never occurred to him that he could escape the dark pit of isolation his community had built for him.  
She cried broke into fresh, desperate tears, " You were all alone. How couldn't you have told anyone?"  
" I've always been alone. I'll always be alone," He shrugged.

She sniffled and tears rolled down her cheeks in a steady stream, she couldn't form words. He smoothly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes before she looked down at the handkerchief and realized that it was not the sort you were really supposed to use: white linen edged with oddly masculine lace and embroidered with his initials.  
" Oh! It's ruined... I'm very sorry... I will pay..." She sniffled.  
" Forget it," He waved his hand to quiet her.  
" But it's so nice," She argued, " How much was it?"  
He hesitated, " 200 galleons, but I couldn't have you. That's what it's supposed to be for."  
Hermione was suddenly struck with how strange it was. The conversation was so quiet and mundane, it could have happened to anyone. It didn't matter that he was messed up and lonely, and that she was so mixed up and feeling more for this boy she had known for years than she ever thought she could. She was just now realizing she didn't know him at all. All that didn't matter, and they were just two people who were confused and awkward and trying to be kind to each other. It was so... _normal_.  
She laughed.

He was startled as she threw her arms around him again, laughter blooming musically from her throat. She tucked her chin into the juncture of his neck and shoulder and her warm scent swirled around him. It was unlike anything he had smelled before, rich like food to a starving man, fresh and intoxicating like a newly discovered spell. He made a little sigh and tried to cover it in a cough. He wanted to hold her closer but he was afraid to scare her away so he held off and enjoyed the moment before it ended.  
She pulled back, her hands still tight on his upper arms and her giggling petered out. She looked at him for a long time, and he was on the brink of pulling away when suddenly...  
He was shocked, frozen. His lips were unresponsive to her soft kiss. His knees threatened to give out beneath him and his hands shook at his sides. What was she doing? He had never dreamed in this sweet detail, with swirling scent and soft, _so soft_ pink lips. It was all he had hoped for and more.  
She paused after what seemed like just a moment and sighed, her lips just resting on his gently. He wanted so much to grab her and kiss her himself, with all the passion and anger and heartache he felt but... he had no courage. He chanced a peek at her and was rewarded with that dreamy freckled skin and her long dark lashes twitching as she breathed. She was irresistible and, he had thought, untouchable. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was stroking that smooth velvety skin generously. She, amazingly leaned into his touch, and then his mouth was on hers, hot and inviting, begging her for more and more. Her mouth molded to his and her arms wound around his neck in what felt like happy submission. He needed it, needed her affection and passion and invitation more than anything else in the world. She was his sustenance now, his air and food and life, all he needed.

Later, in her prefect's single dorm, he had undressed her piece by piece, kissing the new skin as he exposed it, taking it slowly. He had kissed her, raw and almost cruelly passionate, but still so sweet and gentle. His hands roamed over her curvy body almost worshipfully. His movements were sure and unsure, strong and weak, dominant and so pliant, all at one intense point. He was ice and fire all at once all around her. Every tender motion made her heart swell in her chest and every demanding one took her breath away. All other thoughts were blissfully absent from her mind, like balloons he had cut free to fly into the night sky, leaving her to only concentrate on the pleasure they gave each other. She couldn't have asked for a better first time, although afterwards her fears and insecurities and doubts would paralyze her.  
As she lay in his arms afterwards and sighed as he stroked her hair, she was torn openbetween excitement and worry. Was this just a swell of hormones? Or real feelings for him? Did he want her to be his girlfriend or just a one night stand? Would he tell Dumbledore his problem? Would this ever be able to be out in the open?  
" What are you thinking?" He asked, kissing her forehead.  
" I'm worrying. What are Harry and Ron going to say? Or are we keeping this a secret? Are you going to talk to Dumbledore? Will you have to go to a safe house? If you do, will I be able to see you? Do I want to see you? Why did we sleep together? Is this just a one night stand? Or is it..."  
He held a finger to her lips, " Lets us just... think about this all later. If tonight needs to be a secret and a one night stand, it can be. You know how I feel for you but I would not ask you to do anything you do not want. If I can get help I will. But... for just tonight can you stay with me?" He was stiff and formal, but she could see his effort behind the words.  
She turned back to him and dragged her eyes over his rumpled white-blond hair. He was so adorably befuddled and out of his element. She leaned up and kissed him.  
She didn't need to worry about this tonight. She needed to worry about him.  
Tomorrow they would fix this, but tonight they would just... be together.

**Il Filostrato**

A/N: I'm having a sticky time with Think Ahead so this is a little experiment.


End file.
